This Year's Eve
by pennytree
Summary: PG for minor swearing - A New Year's Eve story, focusing on characters in On Angel's Wings. Revised version.
1. One

Disclaimers: I don't own. You don't sue.

Archive: I'm new, so it took me awhile to figure out what this meant. But, yeah. You want, you take. Just let me know. 

Feedback: Yes, please. Good for my tentatively growing ego.

Notes: This story was really supposed to be a short piece, but something rammed into my years-old writer's block. Sent me running to the keyboard to add about twenty more pages than I'd originally planned for this piece. 

So, here's my version of how the gang spent their last night of the year. It's a week late, I know, but I hope you enjoy anyway.

THIS YEAR'S EVE

"…see the countdown continues. Forty-nine minutes and seventeen seconds left! All you folks out there watching, I hope you have someone in mind to share the midnight hour with. Nothing like a kiss to bid farewell to the old year and welcome to the new."

Scott blinked at Dick Clark's face on the screen, watching the Times Square Ball shining in the distance behind the old man's head. Below the ball were half a million people screaming loud and happy in anticipation of the night that lay ahead of them. 

Scott looked away from the screen and glanced around the empty room.

"A kiss to bid farewell to the old…welcome to the new…" 

He sighed. Even if the Professor and Hank had stayed up for the countdown, they were neither of them on his list of people to kiss. The one person usually at the top of that list was one state over in Connecticut and, despite mixed signals, more likely to suck face with Dumbass Matthews than with him. 

Scott turned the television off. Dick Clark didn't know what he was talking about anyway. No one needed a kissing partner on New Year's Eve. Actually, who really needed New Year's Eve at all? The Professor and Hank, two intelligent and respectable men, didn't need it. They had said their good-nights and gone to their rooms over an hour ago. What any reasonable person would do. 

Scott nodded firmly at the black screen before him. As reasonable as he himself was, it was high time for him to go to bed, too.

Well over half of any given population never stayed up for the countdown, he remembered as he climbed the stairs. He'd read the stats somewhere. With those numbers, going to sleep before the ball drop was completely normal, expected even. Nothing at all wrong in doing so. He was just being normal. Not at all being a total friendless, dateless loser without anyone to kiss on New Year's Eve. Nope.

Right.

Slouching at the top of the stairs, he turned in the direction of his room, and then quickly brought his head up to look back at the other end of the hall, down the girls' wing. One of the doors all the way at the end was open. He frowned. Was Rogue still up then? She had gone up even before Hank and the Professor. 

Scott had been a bit disappointed she'd disappeared so early. He'd expected her to stay downstairs for the countdown. He thought that's what she'd wanted to do. He thought that had been the plan. But he realized there really hadn't been any plan. It was just that they'd spent so much time together lately that he'd started to feel like a Siamese twin, expecting near every minute of his day to run parallel to hers. 

It wasn't a surprise to him, that they'd gotten a lot closer the past few days. On the school steps last week, watching the other students leave to go home to their parents, he'd been relieved to have Rogue beside him. She was his only defense against the threat of butt-numbing boredom. And so far, he thought with a smile, she'd made a pretty good stand. Her idea to go scouting on Christmas Eve for a new recruit had led them to the city, battling in a church alongside an Angel against a power-tripping maniac. Not exactly the kind of Christmas Eve Scott would've expected, but certainly not one he would ever forget.

It also didn't surprise him that he and Rogue got along so well. Since she'd joined the team, he'd noticed she was a little less defensive with him than she was with the others. Evan liked to tease him about it, once calling Rogue (behind her back, of course) Cyke's groupie, and Jean pointed it out every so often with a certain accusing look, irritating Scott to no end. It wasn't like he was bribing Rogue with cookies to get on her good side. 

Yeah, Rogue was nicer to him. She related to him better, maybe because they were both foster kids. Or maybe because he had to wear shades to keep from shooting holes into people's heads, a little like how she had to wear clothes to keep from stealing everything inside people's heads. Whichever it was, Scott wasn't going to question her about it. And he sure as hell wasn't going to tell her to be a little meaner to him so that Evan would quit teasing and Jean would stop looking like a slighted puppy. 

But Scott did need to talk to Rogue. Since the vacation and up until today, her trademark defensiveness had all but vanished. She just liked the holidays, she'd said when Hank called her Mrs. Klaus the day they baked cookies. Scott wondered if it was that, or if she was just comfortable without the rest of the students hanging around as potential victims of her touch. Either way, maybe both, Rogue had loosened up considerably. 

The problem was, in two days the other students would be back. This morning Rogue had come into the kitchen in her green pajamas looking like the Grinch's little cousin. When a chirpy Hank walked in, babbling eagerly about a new simulation he'd just finished planning for the students, her mood had further soured. 

Clearly she was getting a head start on retreating into her hostile-girl persona—into the seclusion it fostered. 

Scott hated the thought of it. Especially now, when he knew just how much of herself she kept stifled. 

Glancing back towards the darkness in the boys' wing, Scott scratched the back of his head. It was New Year's Eve, anyway. Exactly the right time for a friendly late night chat. He nodded and straightened, heading for the dim light spilling out from the open door at the other end of the hall.


	2. Two

Disclaimer: I don't own. You don't sue. 

Morgan held the door open. "Turning in early, Mr. Worthington?" 

"As planned, Morgan."

"Ah." The old doorman sighed. "Thought you might change your plans. Find enough suitable distractions at the gala."

Warren smiled ruefully. "I'd have been back sooner if suitable distractions hadn't kept barring the exits." 

Morgan shook his head, even as he gave his customary send-off. "Have a good evening, Mr. Worthington." 

"Good night, Morgan."

As he stepped inside the empty lobby, Warren shifted the wings straining beneath his tuxedo and overcoat. After four hours standing by the refreshment table trying to avoid everyone, then dancing with nearly all the women in the ballroom, then talking with nearly every man about business matters he couldn't give two figs about, both his brain and his wings were in dire need of unwinding.

He took his coat off when he entered the elevator, leaving his tux long-jacket to serve in case anyone stepped inside. Beneath the jacket, he allowed his wings to move a little more freely, sighing as they worked out cramped muscles.  

This was absolutely the last time he would attend a party to make his parents feel better about him, he resolved. He had to stop giving in to their misplaced guilt. The next time his mother pulled the Choked Maternal Voice of Despair, or his father the Quiet Paternal Voice of Resignation, he would just have to put the phone away from his ear. He would wait for them to finish making sounds on the earpiece, sounds relating to their concern over his strange behavior and so on. Then he would put the phone back to his ear and tell them, very firmly, that they really shouldn't worry, since there was nothing strange about him except for the feathery outgrowths on his back, the solution for which would not be found in huge upper-class social gatherings.

Yes, that's exactly what he would do.

The elevator doors opened to his floor. His feet ached, but he sprinted out just the same, reaching his door in record time. Inside his home, all alone, surrounded in darkness interrupted only by moonlight, Warren exhaled deeply. Shaking off his long-jacket and unbuttoning his shirt, he walked to the couch and plopped face down atop it.

"Ohhh," he groaned into the couch, stretching his wings out completely while the rest of his body lay absolutely still. He wasn't going to get up. Ever. Even if his parents came back and found him glued to the couch, and cried and went on Oprah to talk about the son they'd failed, he wasn't getting up.

It took him a few moments to realize that he might have to. And soon. 

He was shivering. 

Lifting his head, he looked around.

"Oh, right," he mumbled, seeing the doors to the balcony were open. He put his head down again, trying to work up some energy to rise, wishing there was some way to close the doors without actually having to walk across the room to reach it, thinking that wind-control or teleportation or telekinesis or magnetic manipulation would be nice powers to have just then.

And then he froze.

Magnetic manipulation.

The balcony doors were open. 

Warren had closed it before he left for the gala.

"Angel." 

Warren shot up into air. Frantically darting his eyes, he made out a cloaked figure wrapped in shadow moving away from the far corner. Warren flew to the balcony doors. 

They slammed shut in his face.

"Now, if you'll just have a seat, Warren..."

Heavy. Something heavy to break the glass. He flew to a nearby table, but it moved beyond his reach at the last instant.

"Try not to make this so difficult for yourself. I only want to talk. You only have to listen. There is a rational way to this."

"Right. Because you're the poster child for rational."

Gold eyes glowered as they moved in the shadows. Warren backed away, wondering if he could use his own body to break the glass. He would need momentum. How was he going to fly past Magneto to the other end of the room, and then again past Magneto to the doors without getting squashed in a magnetic field? There really wasn't any way to do that. Plan B, then.  

"Our last meeting was unfortunate. I wish to apologize."

Warren almost snorted as he streaked past him.

"Fool! You truly think to fly out the front d—wha—no, ge—OOF!"

He slammed into Magneto. Hurling through the room, their combined momentum and weight easily smashed through the glass doors. Warren folded his wings around his body to ward off the falling shards, but a moment later he lifted his wings again, realizing the glass wasn't reaching him anyway. Magneto had wrapped them both in a magnetic bubble. They stopped mid-air, beyond the balcony.

This near the madman, Warren couldn't help wondering at how much smaller he was up close. And how weak he seemed. He shook as he stood with his hands outstretched to maintain the bubble. Warren patted it carefully, surprised to find it giving way beneath his light touch. A hard push would've broken it.

He glanced back up at Magneto. He was wearing only a hood instead of his metallic helmet. Warren pounced, hoping a solid right fist would have some effect. Magneto already looked unsteady. And he really was a small guy. 

The punch landed. It had the kind of effect Warren never thought to hope for. Magneto staggered back, swaying, his hood falling off. The cold invaded the air surrounding the two as the magnetic field dissipated. 

"What the hell?" Warren stared in horror and confusion as his enemy passed out, beginning a sixty-storey plummet.  


	3. Three

Disclaimer: I don't own. You don't sue.

"Nothing?" Scott stared at the two men wearing twin expressions of dread. "How is that possible? Didn't you try Cerebro?"

Hank and the Professor exchanged glances before they both turned away. "I did," the Professor replied. "I couldn't trace her."

"But Cerebro found her before. Hank, you sure this thing is really fixed?"

Hank eyed him solemnly. "One hundred percent functional."

"Why isn't it picking up on Rogue?" 

The Professor closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Scott felt a twinge of pity for him, knowing his own behavior wasn't helping. But he couldn't help the panic inside him. 

He'd gone into Rogue's room earlier and found it empty, the windows shut and locked. Aside from the rumpled bed, everything was in order. He'd gone downstairs, expecting to find her in the kitchen. But that was empty, too. He'd then went on to all the other rooms, including the attic, before going up to the roof. Then he'd checked the sub-basement, trying the Danger Room and the hangar. Nothing.

After waking Hank and the Professor, whose initial mindscan came up empty on Rogue, they'd watched the surveillance tapes, which had shown everything as usual, up to 10:51 p.m. After that, static.

Scott had gone outside to check the cameras. They'd been destroyed, smashed beyond repair. 

Now he stood in the Ready Room, trying to understand how an intruder could've managed to enter the grounds, avoid setting off the alarms, smash all the cameras, avoid setting off more alarms, enter the mansion, avoid setting off the mansion's alarms, kidnap Rogue, avoid messing up her room, and just carry her out the mansion.

"It's not a teleporter," he reasoned aloud. "Why would a teleporter bother with ground cameras? And it can't be Magneto. He'd smash the cameras, but he'd also trigger the alarms."

The other two men shared another look. Scott spun on them. "Whatever it is," he said, trying to contain his frustration, "I can handle it. I'll have to. So just tell me already so we can go find Rogue."

"This isn't about our faith in your judgment, Scott." Professor Xavier sighed, putting his hands on his lap, bringing their fingertips together. "But now I see I should quit doubting Rogue's."

"Charles," Hank began.

"She was right, Hank," the Professor cut in. "She knew something was wrong. I thought she was only suffering the after effects of her nightmares."

"Nightmares?" Scott asked.

Hank turned to him. "Last night she dreamed of Magneto."

Alarmed, Scott looked at them in anger. Why hadn't he known?

"She woke only Charles last night," Hank said before Scott could say anything himself. "I knew nothing until after breakfast this morning. Charles consulted me about it."

"Rogue's become rather reluctant to share her nightmares," the Professor explained. "Those she had of Mystique weren't her first. And since then she's had several others."

Scott ran his hand roughly over his face. Rogue hadn't mentioned anything about more nightmares.    

"I've scheduled regular sessions with her," the Professor continued, "to maintain stability in her psyche."

"Maintain stability? She's having problems…staying sane?" 

"On the contrary. She's progressing steadily. So far she's learned to detach herself, to keep those absorbed personalities both separate and recessive to her own."

"You're saying she has MPD?"

"No, Scott. These personalities are real, after all. Although, yes, to a certain extent, they're also creations of her mind." At Scott's confused face, the Professor sighed again. "I have yet to fully understand it myself."  

"And what about her nightmares last night?" Scott pressed. "You said she knew there was something wrong." 

The Professor grimaced. Scott waited, even as his brain raced to answer his own question. But just as the Professor started to reply, the phone rang. 

Hank, being nearest, picked up. Scott squelched the urge to grab the phone to check if it was Rogue, or someone demanding ransom for her return. He watched Hank cut off his own "Xavier Institute" greeting and furrow his brows ominously at whatever the caller was saying.

"Oh, my," Hank said presently, his voice troubled. "Of course. Give us ten minutes." 

Then he hung up and faced them. "That was Warren Worthington. He was fighting Magneto earlier, and now Rogue's with him."

"Is she okay?" Scott asked, even as he moved to prep the X-Jet. "Are they okay? Where's Magneto?" 

Hank's face took on a strange expression. "We might need back-up."


	4. Four

Disclaimer: I don't own. You don't sue.

Warren paced the floor again. He figured he'd covered about half a mile of pacing since he got off the phone. He wondered how much more he'd cover until Rogue's friends arrived.

She lay on the couch now, still out cold. A bruise was forming on her left cheek where he'd punched her, but she had no other physical injuries. He'd caught her fall easily enough.  

It was the waiting that was the hard part. 

A part of him hoped she would wake up now. Explain how it was that a teenage girl like her could sound exactly like a full-grown madman, and why she was suddenly displaying the same maniacal tendencies when she'd seemed normal enough the last time Warren had seen her.

Another part of him hoped she wouldn't wake up until after her friends had taken her home. If she woke up now sporting her earlier Magneto persona, Warren had no allusions of coming out on top again. He doubted she'd let him surprise her a second time.

He turned his pacing towards the couch and stood for a moment staring down at his visitor. Her slumbering form gave no indication of menace. Aside from the bruise, she looked for all the world like an innocent young girl sleeping in peace. 

But the urge to bind her with rope was strong.

Warren ran a hand through his face in frustration. A rope really wouldn't have much effect anyway. About zero, actually. 

If she woke up again before her friends arrived, he would have to be very quick in deducing whether she was herself. And if she wasn't, his only option at that point would be to—punch her again.  

He groaned into his hands, pulling his face down. "Please, please don't make me have to smack you again," he muttered, staring remorsefully at the dark bruise that glared back at him from its perch on her pale, tiny face.

She stirred as if on cue. Unthinkingly, Warren took one step back.  

"Oh, man." She opened her eyes and brought a hand to her head. Warren moved to the side, behind the couch where she couldn't see him right away.  

"Wha—? Where am Ah?"  

Rogue. Definitely Rogue. Relief surged through him, almost making him want to jump into the air and whoop. But he composed himself, stepping back into her field of vision. "You're in my suite, Rogue. At the Worthington Tower."  

She looked up at him with a confused frown. Then suddenly her face cleared, and she shot up to a sitting position, causing her to wince and grab her head again. "Ohhh, not smart."  

Warren had jumped back at the abrupt move. Cautiously, he stayed where he was, waiting a moment before asking, "Do you remember how you got here?"

"Yeah." Her head was still bowed into her hands. "Crap."

He blinked. 

"Did—are you hurt?" she asked hoarsely.

"No. I'm—" He paused, looking for the right word. None came to mind, so he settled for a repeat. "No."

He stood staring down at her, unsure of what to do or say next. He felt bad that she was in pain, because it had been his punch that was giving her such a headache now. Then again, she had broken into his home and made him punch her. He opened his mouth, trying to form the right question.

"Remember what Ah told you about my power?" she suddenly asked, sparing him the trouble.

"You absorb people."

"Right. Usually Ah borrow their memories and abilities for only a short while. But something must've been off when Ah touched Magneto." She looked up at him again, her gaze hazy. "He's really strong. Got a lot of control. And power."

"Wait, you mean—he's been hanging around your head? All this week?" 

"Kind of. 'Cept last night was the first time he really made himself known. Ah had a nightmare. But it wasn't like the others." She blinked a little, shaking her head. "He was there, too. Watching the nightmare with me. Making the nightmare happen."

Warren grimaced. He sat down beside her, but she moved away from him. "Don't worry, I won't hit you again," he told her, regret straining his voice.

"No, it ain't that," she said absently, not even looking at him as she tapped her temples with her palms. 

"What're you—"

"Crap."

"What?"

When she glanced at him, he saw she was struggling to focus on his face. "Maybe you _should_ hit me again."

"Rogue—" 

"Do it." She squeezed her eyes shut, scrunching up her face in anticipation. "Now."

He stared, trying to decide whether to argue or to just work up the nerve to punch her out. That had been his original plan, after all. But now here she was setting her face in a ridiculous way, waiting for his fist to land, and all he could do was shake his head and wonder if it was okay for him to laugh at her.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning away. "I can't. You look funny."

He waited a moment for her to respond. To yell and egg him on, or sigh and agree. When nothing came, he turned back. Her eyes were still closed. But her face looked strained now, like she was concentrating.

"Rogue?"

Her face smoothed. She smiled and opened her eyes.  

Warren froze at her now yellow gaze. 

"She considers you a gentleman, you know," came the awful voice. "And as a gentleman, you should've done as the lady requested." 

Warren managed to catch a blur of auburn and white before a small fist slammed into his face. He reeled. A quick second punch threw his body across the room. 

"A shame no one listens to the girl." 

It was the last thing Warren heard before passing out.


	5. Five

Disclaimer: I don't own. You don't sue.

Hank alternated his time between glancing worriedly at Scott, who sat rigidly at the cockpit, and glancing worriedly at Charles, who sat behind them with his eyes shut in an effort to scan for either Rogue or Warren. 

They were nearing midtown. A glimpse outside the window showed the bright lights of the city below. To the left was the skyscraper they were going to try to land on. Hank noted with relief that Worthington Tower stood taller than its surrounding buildings, with a wider area. Once they landed they would all be able to leave the cloaked Jet. Otherwise, Hank would've had to pilot the plane himself. And while he had no problems flying it, he did have considerable qualms about leaving the others to face a Magneto-influenced Rogue. 

"There's Storm." Scott pointed. Hank caught an area of mist in the distance. The sight of a slender form in the center of the mist eased the knot in his stomach.

"That was quick," he murmured. 

"The Daniels don't live too far, and she's got those winds working for her. Now we just need Wolverine's location to be set." Scott leaned forward in his seat, looking down at the Tower. He seemed ready to jump out. 

"He's already inside Warren's suite." Hank looked back at Charles. His face was lined with strain and concern. "It's empty."

"Does he have their scent?" Hank asked.

"They stop at the balcony."

"We can take over from there," Scott said, determination thick in his tone. Abruptly, the plane veered away from the Tower. Hank's stomach lurched. 

"Perhaps I should pilot," he suggested after swallowing back his lunch. Seeing the boy about to protest, Hank continued, "Ororo is closing in. You two might do well to take the lower ground, while Charles and I search the higher. I assume Logan's already covering the streets?" 

"He's heading southwest," answered Charles. "I'm afraid Magneto may be leading Rogue and Warren to a crowd."

Hank's eyes widened. "Oh, dear." He turned to Scott, who swallowed and nodded briefly before unfastening his belt and moving to the back. Hank turned his attention to the controls. 

"Open the hatch, Hank," Scott said. Doing so, Hank heard the swoosh of air as it entered the jet. 

Moments later, he looked back briefly. Scott was gone.

"Get out of my way!" Logan growled at the people blocking him. Several pairs of eyes, all behind enormous 2002 party glasses, turned to scowl at him.   

"_You _get out of the way!"  

"God, what's his problem?"

"Freakin' geezer."

He didn't spare them a glance, even though it wouldn't have taken more than three seconds to slice those glasses off all their pimply noses.

Logan, status? 

He rolled his eyes at the timing. A block to the Square.  

Ororo and Scott are on forty-fifth. Hank's nearing the area. When you reach it, stay near the—  

He hated when that happened. Stay near the—crowd? Alleys? Few remaining call girls? Logan vented his frustration by glaring at another group of teenagers near the corner. They immediately scampered aside to let him through.

That was more like it. He was just starting to smirk when the mental call rang through his brain.

We spotted them.


	6. Six

Disclaimer: I don't own. You don't sue.

Mike checked the time. Thirteen minutes and twenty-four seconds left. He looked around the room, feeling it shake. Cibo Matto was blaring out from the huge speakers set up at every niche and corner. 

All around him women were dancing and giggling and shrieking and generally acting like they'd had entirely too many shots of all different kinds of hard liquor.

It shouldn't have been too hard to find one of them willing to let him stick his tongue down her throat at midnight. He'd been sure of it. He'd even said so to Dan, his terminally shy friend who never had plans on New Year's Eve. Mike had nearly had to drag him to the party. 

"You're a pig, man," Dan had told him. "No girl's gonna just let me stick my tongue down her throat anymore." 

"You'll find one, man. Just watch."

So now here Mike was, watching each and every woman around him sit in some other guy's lap. 

More specifically, watching his good friend Dan sit with not one, but _two _drunken girls. They sandwiched him, all three playing the What's My Number drinking game that Mike had invented. Well, okay, not invented. But he _had _taught it to Dan, and the least Dan could do now was wave him over to join the game, hand him a shot, hand him a girl.

Dan caught his look. Mike brightened at the sudden grin his friend gave. He grinned back, straightening, ready to make his way over.

Dan looked away to take another shot. He gulped. One of the girls leaned into his ear, whispering, or maybe licking it. Whatever. Mike couldn't tell, but it had to be something good, because Dan choked and his drink came out of his nose. Wide-eyed, he turned to the girl, grinning even bigger when she winked. Then he turned to the other girl, who smiled back foolishly. 

The three of them stumbled up and left the room together, laughing.

Mike stared in disbelief. After a few seconds of gaping, he grabbed a bottle of Corona and went out to look for them. 

He knew the entire floor of the hotel had been rented out for the party. Actually, he didn't really know that. Some guy had told him earlier, but the guy had probably been piss drunk and babbling bullshit. 

But Mike walked around the halls anyway, checking open doors and putting his ear to the closed ones.

After five minutes he gave up. 

Obviously Dan had gone to some Tequila paradise, joined by two girls more than willing to have his tongue stuck down their throats and other places.

"Friggin' Dan," Mike muttered.

He found an empty room with a nice view of Times Square, where the Ball glittering above the big 2002 sign seemed near enough to touch. He plopped himself down at a seat, turned on the television, and opened his beer.

"Um, hi?"

He glanced up to find a girl staring at him. He stared back. She was wearing a cardigan over what looked like layers of big brown burlap sacks, and had three different cameras hanging around her skinny neck.

"Hi," he said, trying to remember how many drinks he'd had and if they were enough to make him hallucinate. 

"Yeah. Now, who're you and why're you in my room?"

"Your room? This isn't a party room?" 

"Does it look like a party room?" 

Mike started to flush. "I guess not."

He got up from the seat, feeling like a brainless toad. But he didn't think he should have to feel that way, since she was obviously the weird one, with her cardigan and burlap sacks and cameras.

"Why do you have all those?" he asked as he approached.

She looked down. "All what? Clothes? Cameras?"

"Yeah."

"People generally have clothes and cameras, you know."

Mike blinked at her. Then he shrugged. "Whatever. Happy New Year," he said over his shoulder. He saw her face fall a little—probably from guilt—and felt a little triumph settling in. It quickly seeped out a second later when he realized he'd left his beer behind. 

"Damn," he muttered, trying to decide whether to retrieve the Corona or retain the meager amount of pride he'd just walked away with.

He was just starting to turn back when he heard glass shattering. 

"Shit!" He ducked on instinct, waiting for the sound to abate before looking back inside the room.

The girl was crouched behind the couch. Mike crawled over to her.

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah. What the hell was that?" 

"Ohh, not again," someone muttered from further inside the room.

Mike and the girl stared at each other. As one, they peered over the couch.

A blond guy with wings was sprawled on the floor, surrounded by pieces of broken glass.

The girl gasped. "It's the Angel." She got up and ran over to him.  

Mike followed, crouching down to check the guy's pulse. Steady. He leaned in. "Sir, can you hear me?"

"Yes." 

"Don't try to move." The guy was sure to have some serious injuries. Mike ran a light hand over the guy's torso and appendages. 

"Anything broken?" asked the girl.

"Not sure. Don't move!" he repeated at the guy's attempt to rise. Mike planted a firmer hand on the guy's chest and glanced up to find the girl looking at him strangely. "Call 911."

"No." The guy brushed Mike's hand away. "I'm not hurt."

Mike gaped at him. The guy shook his head clear and lifted himself up. 

"You realize you just fell through a top floor window of a fifty-storey building?" Mike asked, standing to put a steady hand on the guy's right elbow. The girl grabbed the left.

"Thanks, but trust me, I'm fine." The guy somehow managed to break free without being rude. "Sorry for the trouble. I'll cover the damage."

"That's not imp—" 

"Thanks again," the guy said before stepping back out through the broken window.

Mike and the girl stepped to the ledge and looked out. The guy was flying between the hotel building and One Times Square, rising higher with every flap of his wings. 

"Holy shit," Mike murmured.

"Look." His gaze rose a little to follow the girl's pointing hand. 

Nearby were three other people up in the air. A woman carrying a visored boy by the shoulders, and a gold-eyed girl some ways off who suddenly shut her eyes, clutching her head. The woman looked up somewhere to her left as the blond winged guy approached them. He took the other boy from her, moving away as the woman stretched both her hands out towards the girl. 

Mike heard the howl of strong winds. He shivered. 


	7. Seven

Disclaimer: I don't own. You don't sue.

"Jesus. She's gonna die."

Fei shook her head, staring up at the sky near the Times Square Ball, where a windstorm was trapping and tumbling a small form around with its fast and furious gusts. 

"She won't die," Fei said, randomly grabbing at the cameras around her neck.

The young man beside her glanced away for a moment from the bizarre scene to give her a disbelieving look. "Every bone in her body is going to break. And even if by some miracle that doesn't kill her," he added, looking up again, "the head trauma will."

Fei brought the Leica to her eye. "Well, the Angel crashed into our building and managed to fly away in one piece. That girl may have the same kind of—luck—going for her." 

She looked through and focused the lens all the way out, trying to follow the spinning girl inside the tornado. Fei took several shots. 

"You work for the Times?" asked the guy.

"No. The Bugle." 

"What, you're supposed to cover the balldrop?"

"Something like that," Fei muttered, focusing her lens on the others in the air, taking several close-up shots of each of the three before panning out to include all four. She was refocusing, getting ready to snap some more, when she nearly dropped her camera.

The girl had just stopped spinning. 

Despite the tornado that was growing even faster and larger, the small form inside had stilled, crouching itself into a ball in the center of the storm.

"Shit," Fei whispered, swallowing and wishing she could fly too, pluck the girl out, and take her to the nearest hospital. She saw the Angel fly himself and the visored boy nearer the storm and the girl. The boy turned his head, shouting something to the woman. 

Meanwhile, the girl started to glow.

A myriad of white-blue-green grew out from her form, expanding, filling the tornado, filling the sky. It was brighter than the New Year's Ball.

"The Ball," Fei said in sudden remembrance. "The Ball!"

The Ball was dropping.

But nobody on the Square was counting down, not a single voice following along with the panoramic screen flashing the numbers, 4…3…2…1…

For the first time since 1907, no one in the crowd gathered around Times Square seemed to give a damn about the New Year. The panoramic screens flashed its greeting, fireworks shot up, confetti rained down, and people suddenly started shouting, but they were shouting with their gazes fixed above the ball.

They weren't celebrating. They were screaming in fear.

Fei looked back up and saw just in time the expanding light hit their building. She was just throwing her hands up as it came when she felt something knock her down to the floor and rest heavily atop her. The light washed over her body in one quick instant, leaving darkness in its place.

Fei lay on her side, tingling, feeling almost weightless. 

"Wow," she breathed. Was she dead? But people wouldn't be asking themselves if they were dead if they were really dead. In all her musings of the afterlife, the one constant was that being dead precluded thought processing. 

And feeling. Right now, she was still feeling the same heavy something on top her.

She moved a hand out, poking. 

"Argh! Hey!" 

Fei squinted, patting carefully at the general form on top. "We're not dead," she said.

"No."

"Then let's get up."

"Yeah."

They helped each other stand. Fei blinked in the blackness of the room, moving back to the window to look out. 

The crowd below was in complete disarray, some people still huddled on the ground, others scattering for escape. And the panoramic screens, the building lights, the streetlamps—total dark.

New York had blacked out. 

Only the girl was still giving off a glow. She had straightened from her crouched position—now her hands and feet were stretched out. The windstorm around her had disappeared, maybe chased away by the light that continued to surround her, diminished in size but not in brightness.  

Fei reached for her camera, brought it up, aimed it in the general direction of the girl, and didn't bother to focus as she pushed the button. 

A moment later the circle of light burst, incredible brightness streaking straight into the sky. Fei wondered if astronomers or satellites orbiting the earth would be able to take pictures of the light streaming into outer space. 

That'd make a hell of a shot, a detached part of her mind noted, even as she felt the impact of the explosion shake their building, shattering more windows.

The panoramic screen crumpled. Billboards followed suit.

Grabbing on to the ledge, Fei watched the Angel and the visored boy smash into the panoramic screen as the woman slammed into a building across from them. All three started to freefall. But the Angel soon caught himself, shaking his head clear. He dove for the boy.  

Fei watched in horror as the woman continued to drop. "No!" she cried, leaning out of the window as the woman neared the ground. 

A figure sprang up into the air and caught the falling woman just before impact.

Fei sighed hugely in relief.

"Are you crazy?" She felt hands pulling her back inside. 

She looked back at the guy. "She didn't die."

"Yeah, and _you_ almost did. What, you thought you could jump out the window and grow some wings yourself?"

Fei didn't answer, instead turning back to the girl. She was still in the air, but now her eyes had opened, gold, eerie, and aware. She was blinking as she looked around.

"Watch out!" came a shout beside Fei's ear, just as she heard a sudden creak followed by a long, low groan. She looked across to find the panoramic screen breaking away, falling from its perch. The Angel and the boy were right beneath it. They looked up and started to dodge, but they'd caught it too late. They were moving too slow.

"No, no, no," Fei whispered.

A crimson beam of light shot out, pushing the screen up into the sky. Looking down, Fei traced the light's source to the boy. He stared up with his fingers on his visors, pouring red from his eyes, moving the screen higher and further away.

Moments later the screen stopped its ascent, slowly righting itself against the pulsating beam. 

Fei stared blankly.

"She's got it," the guy beside her said in wonder.

Fei turned to see the girl with her hands held out. She flew towards the Angel and the boy, her gold eyes flashing brightly in her small face. Fei's fingers found their way to the cameras, ready to bring one up. When she felt a hand staying hers, she looked up to find the guy shaking his head slowly.

"Just watch." 


	8. Eight

Disclaimer: I don't own. You don't sue.

Warren watched the red beams die down as Scott moved his fingers away from his visor. The screen hung over their heads, completely still. Waiting. 

Glancing to his left, Warren saw Rogue nearing, her still golden eyes set against a grim expression.

"Rogue?" Scott asked.

She didn't answer, but stopped a few yards away, gesturing with a small hand. The screen moved down again, slowly, controlled.

Warren, Scott, there's a balcony below you. Xavier's voice was distant, almost weak. Try to wait there.

Glancing quickly back at Rogue's flat stare, Warren gave Scott a nervous look. I don't know if we'll get a chance do that. 

I'm going to try to probe her mind again. But I'll scan lightly this time. If there's still a backlash, she might pass out from the mental shock. I need you to be free to catch her, Warren.

Are you sure about this, Professor? Scott asked. What if the shock causes permanent damage to Rogue's mind? 

There was a long silence on the other end. I'm not sure about this at all. But we have to do something to keep Magneto from gaining permanent _control _in Rogue's mind. 

Permanent control? Warren shook his head in disbelief. How can that happen? It's Rogue's brain. 

Magneto has mental defenses far stronger than what Rogue has learned so far. I'm not certain myself what some of those defenses are, where he's learned them, how he maintains them. Xavier's voice was quiet and strained. But a majority of Magneto's power has drained from her body. His mental influence should have likewise diminished, so it should be easier to probe her this time. Another pause. I'll be scanning lightly. Just skipping gently across the surface of her mind to find an entrance somewhere, a crack in Magneto's shield that could gain me access into Rogue's psyche. If I probe softly, it shouldn't provoke a strong backlash the way my first scan did. Magneto shouldn't even be able to notice this one.  

The technical terms still evaded him, but Warren could clearly make out the doubt seeping through Xavier's mental voice. Fighting a surge of panic at the realization that even Xavier didn't quite know what the hell he was doing, Warren looked at Scott again, but the younger boy had turned his gaze back to the descending screen.

"Wait, something—" Scott stopped, frowning as he looked at Rogue. Her attention was completely on the screen now.  

Scott, Warren, be ready.

"No! Wait!" Scott cried. "Take us nearer."

His eyes widening, Warren opened his mouth to protest, but Scott cut him off.

"Just do it."

Scott, what—

Remember when Jean's power went out of control, Professor? You said she needed something to focus on. Maybe I can try with Rogue what I did with Jean.

But this is not about Rogue's powers spiraling out of control. This is about her being _under _control.

Warren saw the boy's jaw clench. 

"I know," Scott said. "But I have to try." 

Scott— 

"Just let me try." 

Warren heard something like a tired, defeated sigh flow through the link.

Be careful.  

Scott looked at Warren expectantly. Warren wanted to ask about Jean, and focus, and whatever it was that Scott had done there that made him think he could try it now with Rogue. He wanted to ask if Scott knew what the hell he was doing any more than Xavier did.

But since Warren could think of no better solution himself, he kept his mouth shut and slowly flew them higher.

Rogue's face turned to them, staring out with Magneto's eyes.

Warren looked at Scott.

"Rogue." Scott's voice was low with pleading. "Rogue, if you can hear me, focus on my voice."

Magneto's eyes blinked at them. The screen started to waver.

"Rogue, listen, fight him. You can do it. I know you can. You did it last week, remember? You chased him off."

Warren kept his eyes doubtfully on the now shaking screen. 

"You're a fighter, Rogue, and you know it. You've kicked everyone's ass on the team in hand to hand. You lived with the Brotherhood, you took out Sabertooth, you have nightmares about Mystique that you keep all to yourself. You're the strongest person I know, Rogue. With or without powers. You can beat Magneto."

The gold eyes gazed at him blankly.

Warren saw desperation and panic cross the younger boy's face.

"Please, Rogue, don't give up," Scott was begging now. "You can't give up. I—We can't lose you."

The screen shook in the air, dropped. Warren cursed and moved away, but the screen slowed a second later, moving to the side a little, descending steadily until it rested gently on the rooftop of a building nearby. 

He heard someone exhale deeply. Looking up, he found the gold eyes regarding Scott again, but now Warren saw reflected in those glowing orbs exhaustion, exasperation, and something else he couldn't quite place. 

"You sure know how to distract a girl, Summers," came the tired, familiar voice.


	9. Nine

Disclaimer: I don't own.

As Warren flew them closer, Scott felt his stomach spasm uncontrollably. Maybe Warren had flown them too fast. Or maybe he was just relieved to hear Rogue again.

Or maybe his brain was just starting to work out the fact that Rogue had been Rogue for the last few minutes now, so Scott's speech, painfully sincere though it was, had only been completely useless overkill.

"Rogue! Are you—you're Rogue, right?" asked an anxious Warren as he stopped just short of colliding with the girl, nearly dropping Scott in the process.

"Ah'm me," she said quietly. "Been me for a little while now, actually." She rubbed her head, glancing to the screen. "But that thing was heavy. Had to keep my mind on it." 

She glanced briefly at Scott with her strange gold eyes, and then looked around at the mess surrounding them. Scott saw her slump. When she turned her gaze to the below, to the thousands of little faces staring upwards, she closed her eyes in dismay. "Damn," she muttered.

"I don't think anyone was hurt," Warren said. "Otherwise we'd have heard screaming."

She opened her eyes, once more scanning the just-murmuring crowd. "Hope so." Then she looked at Scott. "Ororo?"

"On the ground with Logan. She's fine. A little bruised, maybe, but that's all."

"And the Professor? Ah felt him earlier, but he got pushed away. Is he…?"

Scott felt the Professor opening the link again, but the telepath was staying silent.

"He's fine, too. He and Hank are in the Jet. They're picking up Ororo and Logan. We can meet them on 49th and then," Scott paused, seeing the apprehension on Rogue's face and feeling a similar distant anxiety on the Professor's end. "Well, I guess we head home. Get some rest."

Scott felt the Professor close the link, leaving behind vague mindprints of relief. But the expression on Rogue's face was doubtful, as if she didn't expect the night to end as simply as that.

"I heard you didn't have much of that last night," Scott went on. "And I know you didn't have any tonight, so..."

"So we sort things out tomorrow?" 

"Tomorrow."  

A small smile tugged at her lips. Scott felt himself returning it. 

They flew up and away from Times Square. As they passed the top of the famous building, Scott looked down at the 2002 sign, resting his gaze on the Ball perched behind. It was bruised but buzzing, lights flickering in and out of life.

Warren caught his look. "Not the kind of New Year's Eve you had in mind?" he asked dryly.

"No." Scott looked at Rogue's flying form ahead of them. "And not the kind I'll ever forget." 

END

End Notes: 

I know, I tweaked Rogue's powers. I heard in the comics she's wearing visors and sporting Wolvie claws, so that got me thinking of her powers in Evolution. She's got a little more control there than she does in the comics and in the old show. I figure since Evo Rogue's sort of a clean slate, no Carol Danvers, no years of continued Mystique warping, her powers have a lot more room to grow now. So they'll be a little more fun to write.

And yes, I left some loose ends. Sorry. I'll tie them up in a sequel or something, which I want to start writing soon, if real life would only quit pestering me. ;)

Anyway, thanks for reading. And a belated—or early?—Happy Holidays. 


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